


Beauty and the Beast

by Ninjaninaiii



Series: Happily Ever After Les Mis AUs [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Disney, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, Background Les Amis de l'ABC, Canon Era, Dancing, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Grumpy Old Men, M/M, Middle Aged Virgins, Minor Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, canon until arras, jehan is a genderless teapot i mean really what else do you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6694678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s in the west wing?” Valjean asked Bahorel as he followed the furniture around, attempting to get a feel for the size of the castle.<br/>“West wing?” Bahorel said, a guilty laugh in his voice. “What west wing? I didn’t mention a west wing.”<br/>“Exactly,” Valjean said.<br/>“Bahorel!” came Feuilly’s indignant cry. “You told him about the west wing?” </p><p>A Beauty and the Beast AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i swear there is e/r just. in the second chapter. i swear.

Valjean and Cosette had moved to a small provincial town when she had been just a child, escaping the dangers of Paris to allow Cosette an upbringing like Valjean’s own, though, he vowed, without the toil. With his fortune, they could afford a cottage away from town, private but close to amenities. The town was decent: a baker, a smith’s, farmers that sold their wares. No dangerous innkeepers. 

Cosette had gone away for the weekend, to market, and Valjean was alone. He had wanted to go with her, to protect her, but she had insisted she was old enough to make her own way, and Valjean had had to trust her. Which left him to stagnate at home, alone. With no profession, he was not busy. With no daughter to care for, he had no use. Some day soon, Cosette would leave the house for the last time and Valjean would be cold and alone.

But not this time, Valjean told himself, attempting to piece his self-esteem back together. She would return, and they might live in their harmony forever. He should do chores, grocery. He could pass by the bookshop and return the novel he had just finished. He could find another and the time would pass without him even knowing.

“He’s odd,” he heard a fruit-seller whisper to her customer as he passed through the town, basket in hand.

“Who, the inventor’s father?”

“Yes, quite queer! A handsome man like himself, with no wife to care for that young daughter?”

“And how she turned out because of it!” the woman paid for her apples in silence when Valjean threw them a small smile and a ‘good morning’.

“Good morning!” they both replied, before turning again to talk.

“I’ve heard he’s quite rich. A bachelor like him…” 

“Half the widows in the town hang on to his every word,” the fruit-seller continued.

Valjean sighed once he’d turned the corner, allowing his smiling facade to falter. He was well aware many of the town’s populace had hopes for him, which he was currently attempting to tell himself was a good thing. If there was a focus on him, Cosette must be too young to consider marriageable. 

“Monsieur?” He called into the shop, taking out his previous book and replacing it on the bookseller’s shelf.

“Monsieur Jean!” the old man said, grinning as he appeared from the back. “You’ve done it again, haven’t you!” Fauchelevent looked at the book Valjean had just put back, in mint condition. “This is a shop, not a library, when I sell you a book I don’t need you to return it!” 

“You know I don’t have enough space in my house,” Valjean said, browsing the titles. Many of them he had previously bought and returned, which Fauchelevent then resold at a lower price because, though they looked untouched, he had felt insincere selling a used book. Valjean picked out a title and took it to the desk Fauchelevent sat behind.

“Eugh, Monsieur must be getting old. You’ve bought this one twice before.” 

Valjean chuckled a little, letting himself stroke the cover with a loving finger. “No, it is simply my favourite.”

Fauchelevent raised a bushy eyebrow. “So Monsieur Jean is a romantic?”

“Don’t let it get around,” Valjean said with a wink. “Else I’ll be inundated with flowers.” Fauchelevent joined him with a laugh, taking a coin for the book. 

“I really cannot take it back to be sold a fourth time, Monsieur Jean. Please, keep it this time or else word shall get around that I sell your books for a mean profit!” 

Valjean’s fingers tightened on the novel, knowing full well what Fauchelevent was doing. Despite its amount of time in Valjean’s hands, the book would have been indistinguishable from a new one; Fauchelevent simply wanted Valjean to keep the book because he had said it was his favourite. And why should he not keep it? He had paid for it thrice, spending well more than he needed on it. He should be allowed to enjoy it whenever he liked. He nodded, slightly, thanking Fauchelevent as he left. 

A possession. It belonged to him. He had the house, of course, and Cosette filled the rooms with cutlery, crockery and miscellaneous knickknacks, but they were all, Valjean knew, hers. He fully considered the house Cosette’s, allowed to grace her presence with his own. He placed the book into his basket with no little care. It would join his pair of candlesticks: his, he knew, but not his possessions. They were God’s, Monsieur Myriel’s. A reminder. This book… perhaps it would make Valjean human again.

As he passed through the town again, he picked up groceries: some vegetables, a baguette… Cosette should return tomorrow, so he also bought a sweet pastry for her homecoming treat.

He was in a good mood when he saw Cosette’s horse outside their house. His smile grew, thinking Cosette had returned sooner than he’d thought, until he noticed Philippe had not been tied to a post, that he seemed agitated. Flighty. A pit formed within his stomach. “Philippe, where’s Cosette?”

Valjean looked towards the house, hoping Cosette was inside, had run in and simply forgot to tie Philippe up; but Philippe faced the other direction, towards the road leading outside town, into the forests. He dropped his basket, not caring that the groceries toppled over as he uncoupled the wagon from Philippe’s back, mounting him and urging Philippe back out into the wilderness. “Show me, Philippe, take me to her.” 

As they pounded out of town, Valjean cursed himself for not forcing Cosette to take him with her. He was an idiot, making her travel by herself, not protecting her— there had been a storm last night, perhaps Philippe had spooked, ran from Cosette’s campsite, and now she was alone, terrified, in a forest Valjean knew was occupied by wolves, by thieves, by any manner of being that could harm her.

The mist curled around them as they pushed further through the trees, the evening sun disappearing, all light seeped by the forest itself. At every turn, Valjean expected to see Cosette, mauled, strewn, pale and thin like the first time he’d found her in the woods. 

Philippe slowed; Valjean had been too focused on the forest floor he’d not glanced up until now, finding a looming castle locked behind wrought metal gates. He dismounted, Philippe pressing close against him. “Is this where she is?” Valjean asked, unable to raise his voice louder than a whisper. He touched the gate, then spotted a hat on the paving. Hesitance forgotten, Valjean pushed through the gates, scooping up the hat. “This is Cosette’s,” he told Philippe, then turned towards the castle. Perhaps the owners had allowed her safety from the storm. The castle was imposing, dark, but that did not mean Valjean should judge its owners on it.

He tried to quell his pounding heart and rapped on the doors, which opened without more than a push.

“Hello?” he called into the dark hallway. “Cosette?” He could hear voices, bickering. Servants, perhaps. “Excuse me, is someone there?” 

A light at the end of the hallway moved and Valjean followed it. The servant must not have heard him; he could follow the light to wherever there were people. No matter how close he got, however, he saw no servant. The light was always at the end of the hallway, just around a corner, almost as if it were slowing to allow him to catch up before continuing. “Hello?” he tried again after he’d climbed several flights of stairs, finding himself at the base of a stone tower. 

He passed a candlestick in a nook, but no servant. He could hear no footsteps, but they must have gone upstairs. There was no other way out than to pass Valjean, so he climbed, one hand against the cool stone of the wall.

“Hello?” he called as he reached the top.

“Papa?”

“Cosette!” Valjean ran towards the voice, spotting Cosette in— in a cell, a prison— Valjean dropped to the floor, grabbing at Cosette’s outstretched arm. “Oh Cosette, you’re cold as ice!” Valjean removed his cloak, pushing it through the bars to cover her. “Who did this to you? I’ll free you immediately!”

“Do not touch the prisoner.” The words were deep, guttural, accompanied by a feral growl. 

“Prisoner?” Valjean replied, barely keeping a growl from his own voice. “You will free my daughter!”

“She was on my property without my permission. She broke into my house.” 

“To take shelter from the storm!” Cosette said, sounding to Valjean as if she had argued the point for as long as she’d been captured. “I am truly sorry for invading your property, but if I hadn’t I might have died.”

“You came here to steal from me! To stare at me.” The beast reared to a fearsome height, keeping himself to the darkness and casting a shadow across Valjean.

Valjean felt his heart still, panic pulling at his every muscle. No, he thought, he must be strong. “Free her!” Valjean demanded.

“She should not have been trespassing!” 

“You cannot imprison a girl for taking shelter!” Valjean stood, finding the beast’s eyes in the darkness, the glint of the fire giving the creature’s eyes a dangerous sheen. “Take me, instead.” 

“No, Papa, please, it was my fault, you shouldn’t have to—”

“Cosette, I’m old, I’ve lived my life. You’re young, you must be free.” Valjean slammed a fist against the metal bar of Cosette’s cell, strong enough the beast would be able to tell he was asking first, but would and  _ could  _ resort to physical threats. “You,” he said to the darkness, “Come into the light.”

The beast growled, but took a step into the grim moonlight of the tower. Valjean could not prevent the breath that was knocked out of him. A wolf- no, something more feline, a tiger? But dark, lithe, and with horns, a bull— the creature was an impossible creation, a Godless beast— “You shall have your penance through me. Cosette will learn her lesson.”

The beast considered them, the weight on its shoulders shifting as it looked between them. “You must stay here forever,” the beast warned. “My prisoner.”

“I agree.” 

“What? No! Papa, no, I was in the wrong, you cannot do this!” Cosette’s objections continued, louder and louder as she was dragged out by the hood of her cloak. Valjean’s breaths grew harsher to see the beast’s treatment of her, grabbing a final glance of her face as she was pulled out of the tower, her screams continued even into the courtyard.

Only once it was silent did he collapse in the  tower, digging his fingers into the skin of his forearms as he hugged himself. This was for the best. She was intelligent, would be able to find her way. Her inventions could feed her and she would find notoriety. She would forget about him, locked away, and it would be for the best. She would not have a burden to care for.

“Get up.” Valjean glanced up, the beast having returned, a snarl on its face. “I’ll show you to your room.”

“My room?” Valjean’s brows pinched. “I was under the impression that I was your  _ prisoner _ .” 

The beast breathed, pulling itself up on its hind legs. “Would you rather a cell?” he asked with a tone of condescension, pointing at the dank brick of Cosette’s previous cell. 

“Yes.” Valjean pulled himself to his feet. “Then neither of us shall forget. There shall be no pretence.” 

“Fine.” The beast growled and turned, looking to Valjean as if it were fleeing. “Have it your own way.” The beast went to take the candlestick but paused, glanced back and left, leaving Valjean the light.

Valjean felt his legs weaken and he leant against the bars of the cell. So this was how his life was to end, the prisoner of a crazed beast. He seated himself in the straw of the cell, already feeling his bones creak. Remove the beast, he told himself, and this was exactly how he’d planned to die anyway. To slowly starve his body of food and heat once Cosette had been married. He was simply joining God earlier than he had planned. This way, at least, he would not have to see Cosette’s smile directed at someone else. Perhaps it was easier this way.

Somebody cleared their throat and Valjean looked up. The light had come closer… the candlestick in the doorway of the cell. “Who’s there?” Valjean asked, not having noticed a servant enter.

“Bahorel Lumière at your service, sir!” Valjean watched as the candlestick toppled... no, not toppled, rocked? Moved? Valjean watched as it… walked? Closer, then openly stared at it once it had paused at his feet. “You may call me Bahorel.” The candlestick grinned, and Valjean felt himself go light-headed.

The hallucinations had not taken long to come, then. Or he had been here for longer than he’d thought? Perhaps he had been here for years, and he was imagining talking candlesticks with grins.

“Bahorel!” There was a whisper from across the room, a harsh, commanding voice but a whisper none the same. “The master won’t want you  _ talking  _ to him.”

“Ahh, Feuilly, you need to loosen up  _ mon ami _ .” The candlestick waved one of its candles at the voice, a clock emerging in the doorway, tentative. “My co-command, sir, Feuilly Cogsworth.”

“Co-command?” the clock demanded. “ _ I  _ am head of this household, not you.”

“Ah, but while you are the brains,  _ mon ami _ ,  _ I  _ am the heart, the soul of the household.” 

Valjean rubbed at his eyes. They were still there, bickering, when he looked again. “...Bahorel?” he tried, and the candlestick focused his attention on Valjean again.

“Yes, sir!” Bahorel said, dipping into a slight bow.

“How are you… what  _ are  _ you?” he asked, only to be shushed by the clock.

“That is none of your business,” Feuilly said, acerbic. “Come, Bahorel, we have jobs to be doing.” The clock had closed in on Bahorel and was attempting to drag him out of the cell, but to no avail. Bahorel, despite his… thinness? Seemed strong for a candlestick. Which Valjean was having a hard time understanding. Bahorel wrapped one of his… arms? around Feuilly, and Valjean got the strange feeling like he should warn Bahorel that his candle was very close to the wood of Feuilly’s body.

“But if the man’s going to be staying with us for a while,” Bahorel said, leaning closer to Feuilly, “Forever, as the master says, should we not attempt to give the man some comfort?” Bahorel was raising his… eyebrows at Feuilly, and, after a second, Feuilly seemed to catch on to his meaning.

Feuilly looked Valjean up and down. “Yes.  _ Yes _ ,” he said again, coming to some sort of realisation. “He might be the one.”

“Why else would the master swap the girl for him?” Bahorel said, also looking at Valjean. “I mean, really, look at him.” Feuilly elbowed Bahorel for the comment.

“What?” Valjean asked. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Wrong?” Bahorel asked, a laugh in his voice. “Man looks like him and he thinks something’s  _ wrong  _ with him?” he said at Feuilly, who rolled his eyes.

“You shouldn’t talk about the prisoner like that.”

“Jealous  _ mon cher _ ?” Bahorel said, in a low voice, before kissing Feuilly lightly on what Valjean was taking to be the cheek.

_ Well _ , Valjean thought, he was now imagining an anthropomorphic candlestick kissing a clock. There must be some kind of meaning behind it. The candlestick… Perhaps Bishop Myriel’s? The clock… Valjean’s time on earth… He shook his head. Feuilly was pushing Bahorel away, though not as much as he might have done had he not wanted the kiss, Valjean noted.

“Bahorel,” Feuilly said with a warning in his voice. “Not in front of the guest. We’re  _ working _ .” Feuilly gave Valjean a hard look, daring him to comment. “What’s your name?” he asked when Valjean just smiled.

“Jean Valjean.”

“Monsieur Valjean. Follow me.” Feuilly turned to leave, this time successful in dragging Bahorel with him. 

“I would rather stay here.” 

Valjean didn’t see Feuilly roll his eyes, but he could hear it in his sigh. “We’re intending to keep you here for a while, Monsieur, we would rather you didn’t die of hypothermia.”

“It  _ would  _ be hell for us to have to drag your body out to the cemetery,” Bahorel added. “You seem like the sort of man who wouldn’t want to inconvenience us overworked servants.” 

Valjean was standing up even as Feuilly muttered “ _ us _ ” as if Bahorel hadn’t worked a day in his life. 

As he followed the two down hallways, Bahorel gave Valjean a brief tour, corrected (more often than not) by Feuilly. Bahorel was energetic, loud, seemed to have a story for every piece of furniture, most stories featuring a fight or a romance. Feuilly talked about the baroque style, obviously admiring it, attempting to make appeals to Valjean over Bahorel’s jokes.

“And here is your humble room,” Bahorel said, completing the tour. “We shall have a man come and bring you some clothes,” Bahorel said, “And a tailor to make something more permanent. A bath shall be prepared and dinner should be ready in...” Bahorel appraised Feuilly’s face. “Three hours. Make yourself at home!” 

“I will not be wanting dinner,” Valjean said, the door opening for him. 

“Not- not wanting dinner?” Bahorel asked, scandalized. “You  _ have  _ to have dinner, or you’ll never fall in—” Bahorel’s mouth was jammed by Feuilly’s arm. 

“You’re just agitated, monsieur. You’ll soon be feeling hungry,” Feuilly told him. “Rest for a while, and your appetite shall return.” Feuilly bowed, Bahorel copying the action as they left, pulling the door closed behind them.

“‘You’ll soon be feeling hungry’?” he heard Bahorel mimic through the door. “Way to sound like a creepy cannibal murderer.”

Valjean looked at his new bed, a luxurious one compared to his own at home. Valjean preferred to sleep on a pallet. He sat on it and felt it cushion under his weight. He would probably sleep well on it. He did not wish to sleep well. There was a seat by the window, a hard stool, possibly intended to entertain guests while serving tea. He sat in it instead, feeling the chill of the cold outside the window. This was better.

Valjean dozed in the chair for a couple of hours, feeling his muscles harden, his skin prickling at the cold. Penance for not caring for Cosette. For leaving her alone. For not protecting her as he should have done. He should suffer far more for his crimes.

A knock at the door made him shiver, coming back to himself. “Come in.”

“You are expected at dinner,” Feuilly said, his tone saying much about who had commanded him. Feuilly seemed like he worked hard for his master, not out of loyalty, but because he would do his job properly out of pure discipline. Valjean would have liked to have hired him, he thought, in the factory. He would have made a good foreman.

“I do not want to eat,” he repeated, garnering a sigh from Feuilly.

“ _ Monsieur _ ,” he said, attempting to convey something to Valjean that he could not quite pick up. “Even if you do not eat, you should… get to know the master.”

“He’s a beast,” Valjean said. “And I am his prisoner. There should be no need for dinner.”

Feuilly muttered something Valjean was sure contained ‘insufferable’, before shuffling into the room. “You would be doing me a great favour if you just sat with the master,” Feuilly said, as if through gritted teeth. “Please.”

Valjean glanced at the clock, who seemed like a nice man, though perhaps overworked. He seemed as if he were the only member of the household that was trying to keep it together. Valjean did not pity him, per say; something about the set of Feuilly’s face rejected pity, but Valjean might respect his work ethic. His drive. “Fine.”

Relief flooded Feuilly’s face and Valjean knew he had made the correct decision. 

It did not seem so correct as he sat across the long table with the beast, in complete silence as he watched the creature devour its meal. Valjean picked up his fork, but the array in front of him was… sickening. He did not know what most of what had been served to him was, and though it certainly looked good, the smells, luxuriant and cloying, made him want to gag. 

The sounds across the table came to a halt. “Why do you not eat?” the beast demanded. 

Valjean put down his fork. “I am unused to such meals. I eat simply when I am at home.”

“Simply?” The beast narrowed its eyes. “I am not trying to poison you,  _ Valjean _ .”

“Nor did I think you were,” Valjean replied, trying not to rise at the accusation of accusation. 

The beast stood, the movement upending the bowls closest to him, and Valjean flinched. The beast did not attack him, however, only left the room. 

Valjean, at a loss as to what he was supposed to do, remained sat at the table. Should he clean the table? Should he leave?

There was a clatter outside, and a single trolley rolled itself in. It came to a stop beside Valjean, its soft movements seeming to urge Valjean to open the silver cloche, so he did, hoping it was not another uneatable course.

A bowl of porridge, steaming. A simple meal. Valjean looked up, as if expecting the beast to have returned, but he had not. As he took the bowl from the trolley, his stomach growled its complaint at not having been fed since… since the day before yesterday, Valjean thought. He had not wanted to eat in Cosette’s absence, he remembered. Even that seemed so long ago.

He brought a spoonful to his lips, determining to eat only a little, enough to cut the edge off the hunger pangs. The taste was… not spectacular, but, again, he had not wanted it to. It was… perfect. Perfectly prepared, not too sweet or salty, thick or watery. He made his way through the entire bowl before he had realised he had done so.

The beast had asked this to be prepared for him, Valjean thought. That was the only logical solution. The beast had left his meal to request one for Valjean. So the prison-keeper was not entirely heartless.

Valjean thought about the porridge long into the night as he sat in his chair, the chill of the night embedding itself deep within his skin.

-

“What’s in the west wing?” Valjean asked Bahorel the next day as he followed the furniture around, attempting to get a feel for the size of the place. 

“West wing?” Bahorel said, a guilty laugh in his voice. “What west wing? I didn’t mention a west wing.” 

“Exactly,” Valjean said. “You took me to the north, south and east, but not the west wing.”

“Bahorel!” came Feuilly’s indignant cry. “You told him about the west wing?” 

Valjean sent a smug smile in Bahorel’s direction. 

“No,  _ mon ami _ , you just did.  _ I  _ was doing a very good job of  _ not  _ mentioning the west wing.”

“Too good a job,” Valjean shrugged. 

“Well there’s nothing there,” Feuilly said with a small smile. 

“Nothing for you to see. Very boring. Spiderwebs and dust, mostly,” Bahorel continued, much to Feuilly’s annoyance.

Valjean hummed, his curiosity piqued. 

“That is not a look I like to see,” Bahorel said. “It looks curious. Way too curious for a man who’s just been told not to go somewhere.”

“If it’s so boring,” Valjean said, “There won’t be any problem in my going there, now will there?”

“No, no, no,” Feuilly said, “That is not how this works. You are forbidden from the west wing on the master’s orders.” 

“Master’s orders?” Valjean repeated. “Interesting.”

“No, not interesting,” Bahorel tried. “Really uninteresting. Nothing there to see. Honestly. Cross my heart,” he said, swiping his fire-lit hands across his metal chest.

“Shall we continue?” Feuilly asked, making his way down the hallway away from the west wing. “We have yet to show you the fantastic library—” 

Valjean averted his eyes from the mysterious staircase. “Library?”

“A bookish man!” Bahorel said with some triumph. “The master has books! Books on every topic! Science! Medicine! Geography! Novels!” 

“That beast has  _ novels _ ?” Valjean asked, incredulous.

“Well,” Bahorel said, suddenly stumbling over his words “This castle did not always belong to our master…”

“Bahorel,” Feuilly hushed, a serviceable smile replacing his previously encouraging one. “The former mistress,” he said, and Bahorel started nodding, quickly.

“Yes, yes, previous mother lady woman, she liked romances. Not that we would call novels a female thing,” Bahorel said, making the point very clear. “We do not gender genre in this castle.”

Valjean smiled at that, liking their policy. “My daughter is an inventor. She reads many kinds of books that I cannot understand.”

Feuilly and Bahorel turned to one another. “Daughter?” he heard Bahorel whisper “Yes, daughter,” Feuilly replied, “The girl,” they both said together. “Does that mean he—” “Well she might not have been his  _ blood  _ daughter—” “And even if she was,” Bahorel was pointing at himself and raising his eyebrows. 

The conversation intrigued Valjean, but… not as much as what was in the west wing. He would have plenty of time to explore the library later, but for now, while they were bickering with their backs turned… 

Valjean had had plenty of experience sneaking. Before, in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he had stolen into houses in the dead of night to leave gold coins for the more famished citizen. On the run with Cosette in Paris, he had more than once thought he had caught a glimpse of the inspector behind him, and had always treaded carefully, just in case. That had been why he’d moved with Cosette, to somewhere Javert could never find them.

He took the steps two at a time, the place an exact replica of the east wing, only mirrored and… Bahorel had been right, covered with cobwebs and dust, along with upturned furniture, slashed wallpaper… the place was wrecked by some assailant.

No, not some assailant, the culprit was obvious. Large claw marks teared through the walls, and Valjean traced the marks with his own finger. The beast. 

As Valjean carried further through the halls, the carnage became worse until he reached a bedroom, the obvious centre of destruction. The door was open, barely on its hinges, so Valjean stepped through, taking care not to knock anything over to disturb the dust or whatever else was in here with him. The curtains hung haphazardly over the windows, letting in brief rays of dwindling winter sun, the specks of dust motes drifting slowly. 

Just across the room from him was a portrait, slashed clean through the middle. Valjean picked his way across to it, again careful not to kick over a table or stray vase. Once he had reached it, he stared into the portrait’s eyes: dark and powerful, intent and… harmful. They were the eyes of someone Valjean knew long ago, but didn’t dare say, lest even the memory summon him to the room. The similarity was a coincidence, he knew; there must be many men with the same intensity in their eyes, but Valjean had the sudden desire to see the full portrait, to piece together the slashed canvas. 

He reached up, nearly touching the strips of painting when a sound made him jump, turn to face behind him. Nothing? He frowned, taking a step forwards. As he did so, he caught sight of something else, glowing. It drew him towards it: a single, pink rose, levitating under a glass dome and emitting a radiant light. It was beautiful, and Valjean— Valjean had the sudden desire to touch it, to see whether the light could warm him, heal him— he removed the glass and cupped the rose reverently without touching it, needing to be closer, needing—

Valjean was given a rough shove backwards, the rose domed again and the sight of it covered by the beast’s body, curling itself around the glass, protective.

“You should not be in here!”

“I’m sorry, I—” 

“Leave!” 

“I’m sorry! I did not mean to hurt you—” Valjean stood and the beast flinched, circling the table so its back was not towards Valjean. The beast heaved as it stared at Valjean, wary, wild. The beast’s eyes were dark, glinting, nearly terrifying.

“Why do you stare!” The beast cried, his hackles rising.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare,” Valjean said, smiling as much as he could, holding out placating hands. “You remind me of a man I used to know.”

The beast panted as he watched Valjean, then bared his teeth in a snarl. “Leave!”

Valjean nodded, backing up slowly. “ I’m sorry for causing you pain.” Valjean bowed slightly as he left, hoping to God the beast did not see how frightened he was. Could not beasts smell fear? Would it run after him? The beast seemed frightened, for now, but that did not mean he could not suddenly turn violent, chasing after Valjean, mauling him, leaving him for dead…

Valjean needed to leave. He could not live in this castle, fearing those eyes, fearing the beast. He would take Cosette and they would run, further, forever, and not look back. The beast would never find them, Javert would never, Valjean’s past would never catch up with them. This was still too close, they were still in France. Cosette was clever, she could learn another language, keep learning. Valjean was old, he knew enough, would not need to learn more than how to ask for bread, for water. They would run. 

He skittered out of the front doors, sprinting towards the stables where he’d seen Philippe had been taken, saddling the horse and mounting. They would be far from here, back in town by morning, out of France by tomorrow evening. 

Valjean urged Philippe into action and they were across the castle’s bridge and out of the gates in no time, then into the snow-laden forest. It was cold, Valjean had not prepared, had nothing on but a thin jacket, but he ignored the bite of the ice. The wind whipping past them whistled, moaned… Valjean pricked his ears. ...It was not only the wind calling into the night air. Wolves.

Philippe had heard them too and his run had become unsteady, panicked as he flew across roots, the uneven land making every step a potential fall. Valjean silently urged Philippe on, ducking low, hoping to God they would escape the forest soon. 

One last burst and his prayer was answered. They were on a snowy plane Valjean could not remember ever seeing before but he did not care, only cared that they were through the forest, out of the reach of the beast, away from the wolves—

A resounding crack thundered below them and Valjean understood too late. This was no grassy plane, but an icy lake, too thin to hold the weight of both horse and man. He looked behind him, but it was too far to go back towards the forest and, even as he glanced, he could see the clever eyes of the wolves as they emerged, taking tentative steps towards them.

“Come, Philippe, quickly now, we can escape this, we can continue forwards—” 

There was a yip and suddenly the wolves were descending on them, too fast, too loud, the ice could not bear the sudden brunt and cracked again, the earth seeming to lurch under Valjean’s feet as they were all thrown into the water.

The shock was almost impossible to comprehend, the swell of ice over Valjean’s head as he was dunked, the waves of movement as human, horse and wolf all struggled to emerge into air, the raw fear as all flailed, all forced their way across one another— Valjean, still attached to Philippe by some miracle was dragged ashore, feeling his heart rushing in his ears. He scrambled back against the ice, trying to get as far as possible away from the hole, not wanting to be dragged back down, but the water had leached all strength from his muscles. He felt boneless, like he was going to collapse.

The wolves sensed it. They had had a shock too, but the vicious look in their eye had not been tempered by the water. The formed a group once again and redirected their efforts. 

This was it, Valjean thought, finally. Devoured by wolves. At least his body would provide nutrients, energy for the wolves’ cubs. He resigned himself to death.

A roar, louder than anything Valjean had ever heard, and then a streak of violent brown, big, too big to think about, barrelling straight towards Valjean. A final wolf, the leader it must be, come to deliver the first and final blow. Valjean screwed his eyes shut, quivering as he anticipated the jaws that would lock around his throat, the teeth sinking into his neck.

A whine, then another. A thud, and growls.

Valjean opened one eye. The wolves were fighting each other?

No, the wolves were fighting… the beast. It slashed at wolf after wolf, overpowering the smaller creatures. But the wolves were not so simply defeated. Without the element of surprise, the beast was only a single enemy. The wolves surrounded him and leapt, all of them slashing, overpowering.

The beast released a final roar before collapsing, but the wolves too were injured, could not risk any more of their number and they left, not so much as sparing Valjean or the beast a second glance.

Valjean was still collapsed in the snow, barely breathing. He stood, hastily. He could leave, the wolves would not attack him now, and the beast could not catch him, lame as he was.

_ And he is only that way because he saved you _ , Valjean reminded himself. Valjean watched as the beast lay in the snow, slowly bleeding into the white. The beast was still breathing, a harsh rise and fall of the chest, but he would not survive out here for long.

Valjean looked at Philippe. He should leave. There was nothing hindering him here.

He bit his lip and dragged Philippe towards the beast. Valjean bent and, with a harsh grunt, managed to heft the beast up, and onto Philippe, starting the slow trudge back to the beast’s castle.

-

The beast roared with pain as it sat in its armchair beside a fire. “That hurt!” 

“If you didn’t struggle, it wouldn’t have pulled as much hair out,” Valjean chided.

“If you hadn’t had left, it never would have happened.”

“If you hadn’t locked up my daughter, I would never have come here.”

“Well if you—!” The beast cried an affronted whine of pain as Valjean started to pour alcohol onto the wound. 

“This might sting a little,” Valjean said, purposefully belatedly. Though the beast winced, he did not pull his arm away, and Valjean dabbed at the wound to clean it before wrapping it in clean linen. He then moved on to the wounds on the beast’s chest, then neck. The beast fell back into his chair, eyes shut, obviously taking great pains not to whimper.

Valjean, too, sat back once he had cleared the mess of the beast’s blood, relaxing as much as he could on the carpet of the beast’s hearth. 

“...By the way,” Valjean said, quietly. The beast looked up, obviously preparing himself to argue back. “Thank you. For saving me.”

-

When Valjean joined the beast for breakfast the next morning, he noticed that there were only two bowls on the table; a porridge each for both Valjean and the beast. Valjean smiled as he picked up his spoon, the taste as perfect as it had been the first night.

There was a huff at the other end of the table, followed by the clatter of cutlery: Valjean looked up to see the beast attempting to grab at his own spoon, only to have to chase it across the table. Paws, Valjean noted. No opposable thumbs. The thought made him laugh. That had been why the beast had been such a messy eater the first night, and yet now he was attempting to dine with etiquette around Valjean, even with his injured arm.

Valjean put down his own spoon with a slight clearing of his throat, before lifting the bowl to his lips and drinking it like that. A compromise as thanks for being saved. When he put down the bowl, he watched as the beast mimicked the action, the action looking no less graceful than Valjean’s own. Perhaps it would not be quite so punishing to live here, afterall. 

-

With very little else to do, Valjean took to sitting beside the beast’s fire in the evenings, cross-legged on the rug. After a week, the beast, hesitant, joined him in the room, though kept himself away, slouched into a tense ball in his chair, refusing even to shift slightly, sitting there even after Valjean took himself to bed. 

Another week passed, and slowly the beast would relax into his chair, apparently watching to see whether Valjean would mind his occupying space in the room.

By a month of what Valjean initially thought of as incarceration, the beast joined him on the carpet by the fire, softly excusing the action with a small ‘it’s getting cold’.

They had talked little, and had not been this close before, so Valjean was surprised when the beast inclined its head towards him. “What do you think about when you look into the fire?”

“Cosette,” Valjean said without hesitation. “My daughter.”

The beast nodded, resting its head on its forearms. “You miss her.”

Valjean stopped himself from mentioning how that was entirely the beast’s fault, thinking that, if they were to continue this camaraderie, he should try not to spoil the mood at a critical point. “Once Cosette is married, I shall be alone. ...I would have been alone had I not come here.”

The beast seemed sceptical. “Your friends would not have allowed that. You are… kind. People like you.”

Valjean took a moment to wonder how the beast could possibly think that. Valjean had been impatient and rude towards the beast (not that he had deserved anything else,) and unless the servants had mentioned him, there would have been no way for the beast to make such assumptions. Unless the beast had ears in the town? Perhaps for his own safety… Valjean accepted the explanation. “The people there do not know me. I have no family there but Cosette. People do not like people they do not know.”

“You weren’t born in the town near the forest edge?” the beast asked, sounding surprised.

“I came from Montreuil-sur-Mer. I was in Arras, we passed through Reims, Nancy…”

The beast huffed, knowing Valjean had avoided the question. “...Where were you born?” 

“I don’t… remember. It was a small town.” Valjean rubbed his jaw with his knuckle, trying to recall anything from his youth. “We moved when I was a youth, to another place, smaller than the town here, no blacksmith. We had to walk to the next town for tools.” That had been when Valjean had been very young. After, once his sister had been widowed, they had had to use blunt and broken tools. That had been when Valjean had stolen the bread. “We walked for nearly a month to get to Toulon. We would pass through towns, and more men would join the chain gang. Some had been walking for weeks before I joined.” 

“Toulon…?” the beast said, quietly. It was hardly a question.

“I stole.” Valjean dropped his hand to his lap. “I served my time,” he said with a harsh edge. The beast looked away, and Valjean knew he had embittered their relationship again. Well, it was only right that the beast knew that his prisoner was no innocent soul. 

“I know.” The beast was still looking away.

Valjean raised an eyebrow. He had been careful to cover the scars on his wrist, had never bared his back to this beast, unless the beast had been spying on him... 

“I was at Montreuil-sur-Mer. And Arras. ...and Toulon.” The beast was backing away, now, away from Valjean’s space by the fire, the distance speeding Valjean’s heart. There was only one who had witnessed Valjean at all three places. 

“But… but that—” Valjean stared into the beast’s eyes and found himself pinned by Javert’s. “Inspector—” Valjean shoved himself back, instinctively, trying to put enough space between them.

“So now you know. You are my prisoner again, Jean Valjean.”

“ _ Javert _ .” Valjean’s voice wasn’t more than a whisper, panic flaring. The beast was Javert— was that why he had let Cosette escape so easily? Had he used Cosette as a bribe, to force Valjean into the castle? But— “Why? What happened to you?”

At the words, all of Javert’s bravado seemed to shatter. No more was he the intimidating inspector, nor was he the fearsome beast. He was simply… Javert. A man, perhaps, long ago. “I ran.”

Valjean frowned. “ _ You _ ?”

“Yes, me,” Javert growled. “I ran. From you. From your… from everything. I ran and I ended up here, in this castle, and then…” Javert gritted his teeth. “Apparently I still hadn’t learnt my lesson.”

Valjean was only more confused. Nothing seemed to have been explained. “What lesson?”

“No matter.” Javert shook, his entire body a mass of anger. He growled, but the sound was not violent, not aimed at Valjean. He paced, a wide circle around the room, throwing the occasional glance at Valjean. “Faverolles”

“What?” The name sounded familiar, like Valjean had tasted it before, like it was a smell. Bark, soil, freshly cut grass, hunger.

“On 22nd of April, 1796 a gang of galley-slaves was put in chains at Bicêtre. A turnkey of the prison remembered a man… chained to the end of the fourth line, in the north angle of the courtyard. While the bolt of his iron collar was being riveted behind his head, he was holding out his hand, as if touching the heads of seven children and sobbing.” Javert swallowed. “‘I was a tree-pruner at Faverolles’.” 

“You found this all out?” Valjean asked, closing his eyes to try to prevent the emotion he could feel building from spilling.

“Before Arras,” Javert confirmed. “But it was unnecessary to bring to court. Nobody could have confirmed that the man with seven dependants was you.”

Valjean nodded, hearing the sound of the heavy hammer behind his head. Seven children. He had not remembered. There had been many, but seven… He could not remember them.

“At Arras…” Javert swallowed, his breath hitching. “The prosecutor. He used me as a witness.”

“I remember,” Valjean said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice even as he dried his eyes with his sleeve. 

Javert looked up, sharp. “They lied. They… twisted my words. They exaggerated what I had said to the jury and I was under oath, they… the  _ law  _ lied.”

“The law is not infallible, Javert.”

There was something in Javert’s eyes as he watched Valjean. Anger, definitely, but something roiling below. Guilt. Betrayal… desperation. Javert seemed desperate. Like he was in a losing battle, scrabbling for anything to hold onto. Javert, the mighty beast, looked weak. “That is why I ran.”

Valjean looked away. This was not his responsibility. He was not responsible for Javert. Javert had been unkind. Had been lawful but merciless. Javert’s actions were his to resolve. Even as he thought it, Valjean’s gaze dropped to his own hands.

Valjean had been unkind and merciless once, not long ago. Champmathieu, petit Gervais… He gripped his hands into fists, then dropped them again. Valjean had promised himself, promised the Bishop… promised God to do good. He looked up and caught Javert’s gaze. 

His hand followed, and he rested it on Javert’s jaw. The hair was not as coarse as it had looked, less like a mane, or a beard, the softness more akin to a blanket. He found himself smoothing the hair, his hand first running across Javert’s jaw and then down his neck. “You are not infallible,” Valjean continued, softly. “But neither am I.”

“I am starting to feel as if that’s a lie,” Javert said, something serious in his voice. “Every decision you make. Every choice. You are always right.”

Montreuil-sur-Mer ruined. The factory closed. Fantine’s death. Toulon. His sister’s seven nameless children. “It doesn’t feel like it to me.”

“You are a saint,” Javert said. “I… I am a demon.”

Valjean snorted, laughing. Javert tried to pull back, but Valjean didn’t let him, keeping his hand on Javert. “No, you’re something worse than a demon, Javert. You’re human.”

“How is that worse?” Javert asked, sounding small, confused.

“You cannot rely on an easy out. Every decision must be made after deliberation. A demon must do bad. A saint must do good. A human must think about their actions and decide how they can justify doing so.”

“What if every decision you justify  _ is  _ bad,” Javert said. “I justified everything I did to myself, and I  _ knew  _ I was doing right. Ergo I must either be a demon or a saint.”

“Your justifications were not fair. You thought the law was faultless.” Valjean sighed. “Nothing is faultless. One can only grow by realising that.”

“What about God?” Javert asked, and Valjean stiffened. He forced himself to relax. 

“Sometimes I wonder,” Valjean said with a sad smile. Valjean allowed himself to sit back, considering. “But I do not think humans can question Him.” He eyed Javert. “Not even I.”

Javert pulled away, slowly, and this time Valjean let him. But Javert did not move, only fumbled for a second, his large paws obviously unwieldy. He eventually managed to pull something out of his inner pocket and held it out towards Valjean. Valjean tilted his head, the beads familiar. “You…” Javert sounded unsure whether Valjean would recognise it. “You gave it to me on my first day of duty at Montreuil-sur-Mer.”

“Oh!” Valjean chuckled, remembering the horror he’d felt that day as he took the beads, running a finger across them. “I thought you’d come to arrest me. I thought I would bribe you with religion.”

Javert snorted, a ridiculous sound as he spread himself on the carpet. “Of course you did. Figures.”

“You kept it, though,” Valjean inspected the beads, proud that, even after all these years, his recipe had held. He had invented the mix, making it cheaper yet keeping its gloss, and he was happy to know that nearly twenty years had not dimmed them.

“I did,” Javert said, simply. “I was bribed by religion.”

Valjean felt a crooked smile spread on his face. The thread binding the beads together was fraying; they were obviously used often. “If you’ll let me borrow them, I can fix the thread so it shan’t break.”

Valjean, still focused on the beads, looked down when Javert did not answer. Javert looked like he was having a slight heart malfunction, but being caught staring, his eyes skittered away towards the fire. “Yes. Please. That would be.” Javert cleared his throat. “Nice.”

“Are you okay?” Valjean asked, feeling amused at the reaction. 

“Of course.”

“...good.” Valjean put the beads into his own pocket, before he was overcome with a yawn. “I should rest. I feel I am not as young as I used to be.”

Javert snorted again. “Of course. You’re an old man. You were old when we first met.”

“I was not old!” Valjean said, swatting Javert. Valjean was not vain, but he knew Javert’s comment had been teasing, and he allowed himself to play along, finding the tone comforting despite the recent revelations.

“You must have been at least fifty,” Javert said, his lips pulling into a canine grin, revealing a sharp smile.

“Thirty. At most!” Valjean ran a hand through his hair, thinking he should get it cut. It had turned a brilliant white at Arras, and Cosette had commented the other day that he had been looking like an  _ old man  _ recently. “It’s alright for some,” Valjean sighed, his heart tugging at the thought of Cosette, but resolving to push past it. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of being enchanted beasts.”

“Luxury?” Javert asked, his voice sounding like he was probably deciding whether he was feeling offended. 

“Like that, your hair shows no grey. Plus it’s soft, and you look big and strong.” Valjean looked over Javert’s new body, allowing himself to see it now that Javert was not keeping himself in the shadows. Javert tensed under Valjean’s eyes, so he looked away, not wanting Javert to feel uncomfortable. “I must look like a doddering old fool beside you.”

“No,” Javert said, almost instantly, which certainly boosted what little ego Valjean had left. Javert was very steadily avoiding his eye, the shape of his shoulders and the flick of his ears revealing his embarrassment at the outright compliment.

“Well thank you,” Valjean laughed. 

“Do you know where Faverolles is?” Javert asked, suddenly. Valjean shook his head. “It is north of Paris. Almost halfway towards Reims.”

“It was so close to Paris,” Valjean laughed. His laugh sounded hollow, now.

“Closer than Montreuil-sur-Mer and Arras,” Javert agreed.

There was a lull, and Valjean chose the moment to pull the strands of their conversation together, not having forgotten how it had started. “When you’re comfortable enough,” he said, “I would like to know how you came to be in this body. Perhaps we can find out how to reverse it.” 

Javert ducked his head, which Valjean took to mean acceptance, so he stood, making emphasised groans he’d heard the elderly make as he did, throwing Javert a wry grin. “Good night, Javert.”

Javert nodded, face turned towards the fire. “Good night.”

-

“He’s so beautiful and I’m so…” Javert growled. “Look at me.”

Feuilly rolled his eyes as Bahorel smothered a laugh. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Feuilly said as he ordered the placemats into place. He would not mention it to either Valjean or Javert, but today was their one month captivity anniversary (‘captiversary’ as Bahorel had dubbed it,) and the household was preparing a slightly nicer meal for lunch. Nothing as fancy as the first night, but perhaps an upgrade from porridge. Grantaire, their oven-come-chef was becoming antsy at being used for only one dish.

“I’ve put him in prison.  _ Twice _ .” Javert wasn’t even counting Toulon.

“Maybe he’s into that. Some people are, you know,” Bahorel grinned, before being punched into silence by a hasty Feuilly. 

“If we’re to break this spell,” Feuilly said over him, “We’ll need to convince him to let bygones be bygones.”

“I imprisoned his daughter. He loves that daughter more than anything.”

“Well make him love you more than her?” Bahorel suggested.

Javert laughed, self-deprivating. “That will never happen, I assure you.”

“Love isn’t a competition,” Feuilly muttered, “His love for you and his love for his daughter are not mutually exclusive. Bahorel, if you’re not helping, will you please get out of the way?” Bahorel held up his hands, apologetic. “Tell Jehan to warm themselves, they will need to be ready for tea shortly.” Bahorel saltued and leapt off to find the teapot. “Look, master,” Feuilly implored, attention back on the sulking mess of hair. “When it comes down to it, Monsieur Valjean could have left at any time, but he’s been here, with you, for a month now.”

“He’s just got a strong sense of duty.”

“If he hated you that much, he would have left you to die in the snow.” Feuilly’s words were succinct, as always, and with little time to spare on him anymore, he left, telling the various other pieces of furniture to cheer the master up.

Bahorel, of course, volunteered once Jehan had been informed. “Master, all you need to do to win his affections is to show him your debonair smile. Shower him with compliments.”

“But be sincere!” Joly added, the wooden cane teetering by the table. 

“Suave,” Bossuet, an umbrella said, swinging from his handle’s perch on Musichetta, the coathanger.

Musichetta nodded. “Gentlemanly.”

“Sweet,” said Joly. 

“Kind!” said Bossuet.

“Charming,” finished Bahorel, 

“...and don’t forget to control your temper.” Feuilly was back, directing a gong into place. “Ready?” he asked, not waiting for Javert’s reply before letting the gong sound itself.

Javert sat ramrod straight at the sound, feeling like an incredible fool. This was ridiculous, he had seen Valjean before, they had eaten together every day of the last month, they were starting to talk in the evenings, why was he  _ acting  _ like this? 

“What is all this?” Valjean asked as he entered, sounding… not like he hated it, Javert noted, thankful. But, Javert realised, he himself had no clue. He looked about the table, decorated far more than usual with flowers ( _ flowers _ ? He asked himself,  _ was it not winter _ ?), the cutlery polished to a shine, the china white and glinting. 

“I… I don’t know.” Javert frowned. Now that he thought about it, the servants had been rather more active than normal as Javert had been panicking about his… problems of the heart. The thought of it made him cringe, suddenly glad that the hair on his face would not reveal the embarrassment. 

Javert cast about for Feuilly’s advice, but it seemed those who were not necessary to service had disappeared as Valjean entered. Valjean sat in his seat and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Are we celebrating?”

Javert shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“Perhaps your servants were bored of catering for two boring old men,” Valjean laughed, his comment validated when their usual meals of porridge did not appear. Instead, the trolleys carried in a broth, simple and clear, coloured with slices of carrots and greens. “Vegetables,” Valjean noted with a small laugh.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t ask for— this wasn’t—” Javert could feel himself stammer. Did not Feuilly know Valjean only ate the simple meals? Were they not trying to… to  _ endear _ him?

“It smells nice,” Valjean said. Javert looked up. Valjean was watching him with… what looked like a sincere smile. 

Oh. Javert tried not to let it show that his heart had picked up. He watched as Valjean forewent the cutlery in favour of picking the bowl up and sipping it. 

“It’s very good,” Valjean said as he realised he was being watched. “It’ll go cold if you don’t drink.” 

Javert hastened to pick his own bowl up, not wanting to seem like he was watching Valjean, although Valjean already knew that he was, and that must be incredibly rude, and Valjean would— 

“Are you okay, Javert?”

Javert choked on his soup, the liquid going down the wrong pipe. He coughed, feeling like he was drowning, then coughed again, trying to clear his airways— a rough clap on his back had him coughing again, though this time it seemed like the liquid was clearing.

He cleared his throat a couple of times before realising Valjean was beside him, stroking circles into his back. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to make you talk as you were drinking,” Valjean said, though he didn’t sound apologetic.

“You sound amused,” Javert scowled, feeling ridiculously foolish. Valjean was laughing at him, probably thought him an idiot. Everything was ruined.

“I’m sorry.” Valjean sounded unapologetic. Javert glanced up to find Valjean trying to cover a grin with his free hand. “Your face was… I’m sorry, I’ve never seen someone look so distressed before.”

“And that’s a laughing matter?” Javert’s self-confidence was probably never to recover from this.

“Sorry, sorry, I did panic, I swear,” Valjean said, his hand on Javert’s back stilling. “I was just thinking about your face in retrospect and…” Valjean’s lips were trembling, the man obviously still having trouble not bursting into laughter.

There was pure joy in Valjean’s eyes as he looked at Javert, unadulterated by fear, or hatred. Javert risked a self-conscious smile, which was echoed by Valjean. Valjean was touching Javert, he noticed, without shuddering, without hesitation. Of his own accord.

“Second course!” The doors to the room burst open as Bahorel announced the trolleys and the pair broke apart just as suddenly, Valjean returning to his own side of the table, now avoiding Javert’s eye with a smile directed at the table.

“Tea?” Jehan asked Javert, who nodded, caught staring by the teapot, who sent him a pleased wink. “I can feel the love in the air,” they whispered in a sing-song voice.

“Shh,” Javert hushed, probably unnecessarily. The table was so long, it was hard to hear the other person’s voice unless they meant you to, so Jehan’s chuckles probably could not carry that far. Still, better to be safe than sorry.

After filling Javert’s cup, Jehan hopped over to Valjean, filling his and, it seemed, whispering something to him, too. Valjean looked up, suddenly, with a growing smile. He and Jehan laughed over something inaudible for a few moments before Jehan wheeled themself out.

What had that blasted teapot said to Valjean to get him to look like this at Javert? What had they been  _ whispering  _ about? Hopefully not the same thing Jehan had said to Javert. ...or, if it was, what did that mean? Was Valjean laughing at Javert? But surely Jehan would not prosper from that? The castle’s freedom depended on… this. So maybe Jehan  _ had  _ been saying the same things, and maybe that was not a bad thing to have been happening… Javert’s mind was a mess. 

“Your…” Javert looked back up Valjean, who had brought his forkful halfway to his mouth before starting, which Javert thought was strange. “Feuilly and Bahorel mentioned, when they gave me a tour, that you had a library?”

“Yes. It’s in the north wing.” There was a cough, the flower vase nearest to him giving Javert a pointed look. “I could show you after lunch?” Javert tried, and the vase’s expression stilled to encouragement.

“I would appreciate it, thank you.” 

Javert nodded, eyes back down into his food. He frowned, then came to a realisation. 

“If you’re busy?” Valjean guessed, obviously misinterpreting his expressions. “I can have Feuilly show me… or we could go another day?”

“No, today is fine. ...I was not aware that you could read, but of course, when you were mayor…”

Valjean shrugged. “I taught myself in Toulon.”

“Oh,” Javert sighed. “Impressive.”

Valjean shrugged again. “There was enough time to learn,” he said quietly, though not with bite.

“Perhaps you could help me,” Javert said, startling even himself with his sincerity. 

“But I know you’ve written me letters?” Valjean asked.

“I can read,” Javert said, obstinate. “...only, the… flowery language. I can’t quite… understand it. I have only read law codes.”

“Oh. Yes, of course, I would love to help.” 

Javert looked up to make sure Valjean was not teasing him, or riling him. ...Those eyes did not seem like they could ever do so.

“Dessert!” Bahorel cried, again bursting through the doors. “Grantaire calls this his  _ pièce de résistance _ and tells me to warn you that if you leave any of it behind, he’ll never willfully make porridge again.” 

“What is it?” Valjean asked, as a soft-looking puff was placed in front of him. It smelled sweet and lightly of alcohol.

“Fresh from the journals of Antonin Carâme, it is a Soufflé Rothschild.” 

Valjean raised his eyes at Javert, who shrugged. Javert was assuming Valjean was as literate about  _ haute cuisine  _ as he was. 

“Enjoy, messieurs.” Bahorel’s exit was nearly as flamboyant as his entry, leaving the pair to stare at their dishes. 

“I guess we…” Valjean picked up his spoon and mimed digging in, until he glanced at Javert’s own cutlery. “Ah. I guess we can’t just…” Valjean attempted to pick up the dish to work out the logistics of eating without cutlery but it had been made in a small china dish, like a straight-sided bowl.  “Hm.” 

“It’s fine,” Javert said, eyeing the dish. “Eat without me.”

“And give up my porridge liberties?” Valjean scoffed. “I may be your prisoner, but I shan’t tolerate that, Javert.” Javert thanked everything Valjean was concentrating on how to eat so he missed the expression on Javert’s face. Valjean still thought of himself as a prisoner? Of course he did: he was, wasn’t he?

Valjean stood, and Javert watched with trepidation as Valjean came towards him, carrying his own dessert. He then placed it on the table beside Javert, returned to his place, and came back with his chair. Valjean sat, picked up his spoon, scooped into the fluff and lifted it to Javert’s mouth. “Here.”

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Valjean asked, pulling the spoon back a little to show Javert the mixture on the end of it. “This seems impossible to eat without thumbs, and so I thought I should help.” He wiggled the spoon and Javert… relented. He opened his mouth and licked the spoon. He had to hand it to Grantaire, it was an amazing taste, light, fluffy and sweet, completely unlike anything Javert had eaten before. The problem, however, was that the taste was completely underwhelmed by the fact that Jean-le-Cric; Monsieur Madeleine...  _ Jean Valjean _ was  _ feeding  _ him with his spoon.

Valjean scooped some for himself; same bowl, same spoon. “Wow,” Valjean said as he ate, “This is incredible.” Javert made a vague sound of agreement. “Cosette would love it,” Valjean continued under his breath as he took another spoonful and brought it up for Javert, who ate as Valjean directed.

They made their way through both bowls, finding the portions just right for two men without much of a sweet tooth, and Valjean sat back, spoon abandoned by plate. “That was a good meal,” Valjean said, sounding at complete comfort.

Javert stole quick glances at Valjean, attempting to anticipate Valjean’s thoughts, but really unable to do so. This meal had been one unexpected surprise after another. As he glanced, he realised that some of the dessert had not gone entirely in Valjean’s mouth and, before he could dissuade himself, Javert reached out and brushed the powdery sugar from Valjean’s beard, his thumb swiping against Valjean’s lip. “You had— there was something…”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Javert nodded and cleared his throat. “Would you… still like to visit the library?”

Valjean’s face cleared into a bright smile, preparing to stand almost instantly at the suggestion. “Very much.” He stood, first returning his plate and chair to his place before returning. “Oh.”

Javert tilted his head, a wordless question.

“I don’t think I’ve had that much liquor for… quite some while,” Valjean said, glowing slightly. 

Javert stood, and felt a warmth in his stomach he had not noticed (or had mistaken for something else) as he’d eaten. “It must have been stronger than it tasted,” Javert agreed.

As they parted the room together, Valjean hummed softly under his breath. A song, Javert thought. Unfamiliar. It sounded like something a child might hum. Perhaps he had picked it up from Cosette when she had been a girl.

He and Valjean opened the heavy double together, one door each to reveal the library; practically untouched in Javert’s decade-long residence in the castle.

Javert could practically feel the pure awe radiating off of Valjean, his eyes taking in the thousands of books, lining ceiling height bookshelves. Valjean’s positivity was catching, it made Javert feel lighter. Happy. So he could be happy. They could be happy. Together. Javert was overcome. And all this because Valjean had access to books? He watched as the man entered the room, lightly trailing a finger over the books as he passed the shelves. 

When he got to a section about halfway into the room, Valjean paused, a nostalgic look on his face as he removed a book and flipped through the pages. Valjean looked up, obviously conscious about his blatantly getting caught dreaming. “This book is my favourite.” 

Valjean had a favourite book. It was so unexpectedly  _ natural _ . “What is it?”

Valjean looked sheepish. “It’s a fairytale. A romance.” He licked his lips. “It’s about a princess who meets a prince in disguise, and there’s a castle… misunderstandings, a curse…” 

Javert could not prevent a snort. “And they lived happily ever after?”

“And they lived happily ever after,” Valjean confirmed, overcome with a pleased smile. 

Javert thought he would probably do anything to keep the man smiling at him like that. He walked towards the library’s reading area and sat. “...Will you read it to me?”

“The great Inspector Javert interested in fairy tales?” Valjean said, before cutting off Javert’s objections. “Of course I will.”

He placed the book on the table between them and opened it to the first page. Valjean’s voice had really only ever been curt towards  _ Inspector _ Javert before, always hiding vulnerability, softness. Mayor Madeleine’s voice had been rough and commanding but not disrespectful, in Toulon Valjean had been violent, spitting Javert’s name. Angry, shouting… Javert had always thought that such a voice suited a criminal. 

Valjean’s voice now was like that of a completely different creature. He had a story-reading voice, Javert realised, probably one he had used for Cosette. He could imagine the young girl commanding her papa not to read in one, boring tone, to change his voice for each character. Valjean muted the accents he used, but they were still there; he was probably attempting not to sound too ridiculous. 

It was a fairly linear story as Javert understood it, the pair meeting under strange circumstances but slowly, slowly falling in love, concluding in a marriage and, as Javert anticipated, a happily ever after.

And yet it was so fascinating. There was something magical about it, something simple and  _ nice _ about it. The predictable but happy ending pleased Javert, the loose ends all tied together in a neat knot. “Again,” he said, “Can you read it again?”

There was an unhidden smugness on Valjean’s face as he re-opened the book. “Why don’t you read it to me?” 

“No, I— I would ruin it, I would—”

“Javert, you wish to learn, yes?” Javert nodded. “Well then.” Valjean pushed the book so that it was in front of Javert. “I’ll be here,” Valjean soothed. “Come, let us try.”

Javert took a deep breath and… read. He did not do the voices as Valjean had done, too focused on the pronunciation of words he had never encountered in his law codes ( _ romance, endearment, adoration _ ), but Valjean did not seem to mind. In fact, by the time Javert had finished, Valjean was looking undeniably pleased. “You did it.” Valjean was looking at Javert with so much fondness, he could barely concentrate.

Saved by the bell, Feuilly arrived to announce that dinner would be served in an hour, and would both messieurs kindly go to their rooms, where their dinner dress was waiting. 

“Dinner dress?” Javert said, under his breath in complete confusion. He did not realise he owned dinner dress. 

“They  _ must  _ be celebrating,” Valjean replied. “Is it your birthday?”

Javert frowned. “I have no recollection of when I was born.” The answer made Valjean laugh, but Javert could not work out why. “Is it yours?”

“No, I do not remember mine, either.” Valjean thought for a second. “I do not think it is a Saint’s day? Or a Holy one,” he added. “It cannot be Christmas yet?”

“Not for another month,” Javert agreed.

“Well, perhaps we will find out the occassion at dinner.” Valjean stood and replaced the book. “I shall see you in an hour,” he said, then left, leaving Javert to make his own way back to his room.

The servants must have taken Javert’s measurements while he was sleeping, because the dinner jacket he had been given; a dark blue trimmed with yellow, fit him exactly. After changing, Musichetta had invited herself into the room, commanding her boys over how to primp and preen Javert. The day was only getting more suspicious, and the usually easy-to-pry from Bahorel had been allegedly locked away to avoid such interrogation.

When Javert was freed from the group’s embrace, he was commanded to stand at the top of the stairs of the west wing, facing those heading to the east wing, where Valjean’s rooms were. Javert eyed the staircase, which joined the two wings together at a slightly lower level before continuing down to the ground floor. He was not waiting long; Valjean was soon hurried to his mirrored position at the other end of the stairs and, meeting Javert’s eye, he raised an amused eyebrow.

Valjean was wearing a jacket of the same colours as Javert’s, but cut in a slightly different style, more civilian, Javert realised, his own vaguely military. Valjean looked dashing, Javert was pained to admit. The servants must have been allowed to trim his beard and to style his hair, because while Valjean was usually a handsome man in a rustic sense, the Valjean at the top of the stairs was nearly regal; not just the clean-shaven Monsieur Madeleine but coiffed and princely. The Prince Charming of the novel they had just read together morphed in appearance in Javert’s mind; away from the pale, blond and blue-eyed image illustrated on the cover, into a dark skinned one with white hair and kind eyes. 

But a Prince Charming would not want someone like Javert as a Princess, no matter how long his hair might have been as a human. 

“Do I go, now?” Javert asked Feuilly, who was beside him. Feuilly made a gesture at Bahorel, who was beside Valjean, before replying with an affirmative. It might have been magical, fit for a fairy tale, had not Javert known how scheming his servants were. This was just another ploy to get Valjean to fall in love with him...

When they met, Valjean offered his arm (probably on Bahorel’s insistence,) and Javert took it (on Feuilly’s insistence,) and they came to the dinner table together.

In the time between lunch and now, the table had changed, shortened so that there was not quite so much distance between the two seated, barely a metre, now. “They’ve been busy,” Valjean observed as he sat in his seat, Javert taking his own. 

“I think they have been enjoying your company,” Javert said, attempting to remove himself from the implication. “They are probably glad to have a kind master that bends to their will.” 

Valjean chuckled, apparently aware that he was an easy man to take advantage of when his charitable nature was appealed to. “They were quick to start with their entreatments,” Valjean admitted.

“If I did not trust them, I would warn you not to let yourself be so easily swayed,” Javert told him, but, he continued in his head, it was fortuitous that Valjean did, else Javert’s job would have been impossible.

“So you do know what they’re planning.” Valjean was watching him, carefully but without caution. Javert still cursed Valjean’s perceptive abilities. 

“Yes,” he said, hating direct lies.

“But you’re not going to elaborate?”

“No.” 

“You know, withholding the truth would still be categorised as a direct lie,” Valjean tried. Javert squinted, again cursing Valjean’s perception. “Shall I take your silence as a no?”

“Yes.”

Valjean seemed disappointed by his answer, but not irrevocably so, and by the time their dessert had come and gone (this time a syllabub that did not necessitate Valjean’s assistance), they were again, Javert was pleased to note, friends. 

Once coffee had been poured, Bahorel conducted Courfeyrac, resident violin, into a soft waltz.

Valjean  put his coffee cup down as he watched Bahorel, then stood and came towards Javert. “Would you accompany me for this dance?” Valjean said with a slight bow, obviously mimicking something he had once seen. 

“ _ Me _ ? Dance with  _ you _ ?” Javert put down his own cup lest he drop it.

“I cannot be that beastly,” Valjean said with a raised eyebrow, before realising what he had said and bursting into a laugh. “Sorry, sorry,” he said as Javert growled in distaste at the joke. “Please?” he asked again, and Javert felt himself go helpless.

He nodded curtly, and Valjean took his hands into his, lifting Javert up and taking him towards the grand hall. Valjean changed the position of their hands so that Javert was to take the lead, resting Javert’s other hand on his waist before placing his hand on Javert’s shoulder. 

“I’ve never… I don’t know how to…” Javert stumbled over his own feet as Valjean started to move.

Valjean dismissed Javert’s objections with a soft encouragement. “Neither do I,” Valjean laughed when he, too, got his footing wrong. “...May I admit something to you, Javert?” Valjean said, staring off behind Javert’s shoulder as the music started to swell.

“...yes?”

“Bahorel was the one to ask me to ask you to dance. He said he missed being able to do so, and wished to live ‘vicariously’ through me.”

“Ah.” That would explain Valjean’s insistence; something Valjean was probably not capable of otherwise.

“But I do not regret it.” Valjean’s cheeks were a slight rosy red as he said the words, which Javert would blame on the candlelight until he was proven otherwise. 

“...neither do I.”

Valjean’s worry melted, leaving only a hesitant pleasedness. “I’m glad.”

Javert wondered whether he were allowed to enjoy the feeling of Valjean’s hand in his, the soft smell of Valjean’s hair, the slight pressure of Valjean’s hand on his shoulder. Whether he could have this forever.

“Were the servants here also human, once?”

Javert glanced down at Valjean, whose eyes had become serious. He nodded, drawing himself out of his fantasies.

“Do you know how to cure it?”

“If I knew, do you think we would all still be this way?” Javert asked.

“...I would believe you would try your hardest to make it happen if you knew,” Valjean said, haltingly, “But that you may not realise you could ask for help if it were too hard.”

Javert’s hand clenched unconsciously, revealing far more about Javert than he wished to show Valjean. He could hardly ask the man to fall in love with him, could he? Valjean would probably try, for the good of the people, but there were things that just could not be emulated. Valjean obviously did not love Javert, or else they wouldn’t have to be having the conversation.

“If only I could ask Cosette… she would know how to fix the situation.” 

The twirling song came to an end, and they both half-bowed, more a dip of the head. Javert led them outside, to the balcony. It was still winter, and cold, but it meant the stars were clearer out here. He looked up, glad to find it was a clear night. “You still miss her.”

“Of course I do. Every moment of every day, I feel her loss like a wound.”

Javert’s jaw clenched, but he sighed. “Would you like to see her?”

“Of course, but I know the conditions of our deal.”

Javert glanced at Valjean, who had followed Javert’s example and was leaning against the balcony edge, eyes filled with the sight of the night sky.

Javert undid his jacket, reaching into its inner pocket. He handed the hand-mirror to Valjean, who looked bemused at the sight of it.

“It is a magic mirror. It allows you to see any person you wish. Just say her name.”

Valjean’s bemused expression turned to surprise, then heavy consideration. “Are you sure?”

“That is not my decision to make,” Javert said, and Valjean looked at the ornate metal.

“Please show me my daughter, Cosette.” The mirror took on a supernatural sheen, which turned into a snake-like tendril of green smoke, the very glass of the mirror seeming to shimmer into clarity.

Javert could not see what Valjean saw from his position, but by the misty expression Valjean adopted, the look of heartbreak accompanied by unadulterated parental love, Cosette must be sleeping, or perhaps eating, alone; a lonely child in Valjean’s eyes.

The look broke Javert. Valjean was not his to lock away. Valjean deserved to be treated as a person, not as some convoluted idea of a prisoner.

Javert realised, with unusual clarity, that he was in love.

“Go.” Javert turned from the balcony, re-buttoning his jacket. “Return to your daughter.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are free. You have no obligation towards me.”

“But—” 

“Valjean, I’m warning you, if you don’t leave here now… I cannot guarantee your safety here.” Javert attempted to deepen his voice, but a convincing growl was hard to fabricate. He sensed Valjean’s hesitance and his frown grew. “Or hers.”

“...Javert, I cannot leave you alone like this.”

“Take the mirror.” Javert started to leave. “...that way, you may remember what you have left behind.” Javert’s shoulders hunched, then he disappeared into the shadows, not looking back. 

This, he knew, was for the best.

-

“Papa?” Cosette dropped the bowl in her hand as the door opened. “Papa!” 

“Cosette!” Valjean was enveloped in a fierce hug, Cosette’s powerful arms wrapping around him. “I missed you so much,” he said into her hair, fingers trembling too much to make physical contact with her lest he hurt her, afraid the sight of her would break.

“I missed you too, Papa, but how… how did you escape?”

“Escape?” Valjean asked, “He let me free.”

“Free? The  _ beast _ ?”

“He was not all he seemed,” Valjean attempted to explain. “He was frightened and alone, lashing out because he was scared of the unknown.”

“...only my Papa can be imprisoned by a  _ beast  _ and come out of it having excused its actions,” Cosette laughed, her laugh obviously marred by tears.

“ _ His _ , Cosette. He, not it. He was human, once, but that castle is enchanted.”

“...the talking furniture,” Cosette said, remembering. “Of course! Did you break the spell?”

“No,” Valjean admitted. “But… I wish I had. I feel like my presence there might have helped, if only slightly.”

Cosette hummed against Valjean’s chest. “Would it be entirely selfish to tell you how I’m almost glad you did not?” she asked. 

“Almost glad?”

“...almost because… knowing you, you have not escaped yet,” Cosette said sadly, now pulling away. “Your body may be here, but your mind is still in that castle.” She smiled, rueful, before tapping Valjean on the forehead. “Still. I shall make dinner, and you shall tell me everything you know about the mechanics of those working in the house, and the tales you’ve accumulated there.” 

Valjean had a very intelligent daughter, and something about what she had said made his throat tighten. They talked throughout dinner, Valjean relating as much as he could remember about Bahorel’s jokes, Feuilly’s good work, Grantaire’s cooking. About Javert he was hesitant about, not wanting to say the man’s name lest Cosette remember him and the thought dredge up bad memories for her. Valjean did not wish to scare her, unsettle her, to make her think they were not safe here, and so he referred to Javert as  _ the beast,  _ hoping he would not slip up.

Cosette had an early morning the next day, she told him, but after dinner, she disappeared into her room for a second before reemerging with a book. Valjean’s book, he realised, the one he had dropped in his flight, those months ago when he had first thought the worst of Cosette’s fate in the woods. She placed it on the table beside him and kissed his forehead before going to bed, looking back over her shoulder as she left, as if making sure Valjean was not a ghost, or a dream.

Valjean settled into his favourite chair, that night, picking up the novel Cosette had left for him. He stroked the cover, smiling at the familiarity of the material, of the weight and smell of it in his hands. Cosette had a fire going and the heat was comforting. It was exactly what he imagined when Valjean pictured his ideal home life. 

Only… Valjean could not concentrate, could not feel satisfied. He turned a page, realising he had not read it, and so tried to focus on the individual words. He knew the story well, knew what was happening. The princess had misunderstood the prince and they were separated by the mistake, both wondering how their love could be thus rejected and unreciprocated. Valjean shut the book.

After a moment’s consideration, he stood and went to his room, removing Javert’s mirror from the drawer he had placed it in while Cosette had cooked. He did not have to do this, Valjean told himself. He did not owe Javert anything. He knew that, and yet… Valjean was concerned. He was concerned about Javert. He… cared for Javert.

“Show me Javert,” he said, the mirror casting its green light as it conjured the scene. Valjean could feel his smile appear on his face as the mirror swirled and revealed Javert, just as Valjean remembered him. Pensive, ever-so-slightly melodramatic as he stared towards something Valjean couldn’t see… Javert under an open sky. On the balcony they had danced on? No, higher. Perhaps the balcony of his room. Except there were no curtains. A spire. A spire? The mirror pulled out and Valjean’s smile started to disappear as he comprehended what he was seeing. The… roof? The roof. Javert was… 

Valjean dropped the mirror, barely able to concentrate on anything but running.

He was mounting Philippe when Cosette rushed out, her face a picture of concern. “I have to go,” Valjean said, quickly. “Javert,” was all he could manage before urging Philippe away. From the house, he heard Cosette call ‘Javert?’, but he ignored it, needing to go faster, needing to hurry.

The castle seemed impossibly far away, deep within the woods. He could only hope he had been mistaken, that he had misinterpreted the mirror’s vision, that Javert was simply watching the clouds. Valjean felt numb, like he was suddenly empty of any thought but the word  _ please _ .  _ Please be safe, please be mistaken, please don’t act rashly, please, please, please... _

“Monsieur Valjean!” Bahorel sounded elated as Valjean crashed through the front doors.

“Where’s Javert?”

“The master?” Bahorel cast his glance around, but none of the furniture seemed to know. 

“I think I saw him going towards the roof,” the coathanger,  _ Musichetta _ , Valjean thought, said. 

Valjean prayed that the fact he had not seen Javert’s body on the ride towards the castle had been a good sign as he climbed stairs, two, three at a time, his thighs complaining, his lungs burning as he finally burst through the final doors that led to the final set of stairs. 

There he was. Valjean had never been so glad in his life before. “ _ Javert. _ ” 

Javert turned, the terrifying serenity in his face contorting into an even more terrifying look of panic. “Hah. So the man of mercy arrives. You could not even let me die in peace.”

“Die? Javert, please, come down. You are not safe up there.” 

“Perhaps this way, the curse will break. The others might become human again.”

“Javert, let’s not act rashly, there must be another way. Come, grab my hand.”

“But why not try? God knows I tried to help, to break this by myself, but in the end, it was not enough. I have learnt my lesson, and yet here we all still are…”

“Javert, you’re talking nonsense. Please, let me help. Talk to me.”

“Talk to you…” Javert drew a breath. 

As Javert took a step towards Valjean, there was the sound of horses, of shouted voices, and both Valjean and Javert turned to look towards the front gates, where a group… and army of villagers were riding across the castle’s bridge. Valjean’s heart leapt again, hoping Javert did not misunderstand— 

Javert did not turn to face Valjean. Valjean watched as Javert’s foot slipped on the roof’s tiling and then, then he was gone. It felt like the air had been punched from Valjean’s lungs. He leapt onto the roof, clinging to it as he looked down, hoping Javert had caught hold of something, had not fallen all the way; he couldn’t see him, could not… 

A shimmer of pink caught his eye, directly below him. The rose, viewable from the window of Javert’s room— and there, on the balcony, was the beast, unmoving— 

Valjean flew back down the stairs, hoping Javert had landed properly, that the fall had not been long enough to do damage, that he was still alive— 

This time as he entered the west wing, he did not care to pick his way through, instead tearing a path through the debris, dislodging a decade’s worth of dust and furniture. By the time he had arrived at the balcony, he was breathing heavily, his heart like a drum in his ears. “Javert?” 

There was a crash from below but Valjean ignored it. The house could take care of the invaders without them. 

He knelt beside the beast, a hand hovering over Javert’s chest. It did not rise to meet his hand. Valjean tried to calm his breathing before pressing his head to Javert’s chest, listening for even the faintest tremor of a heartbeat.

...Nothing.

Valjean felt his own heart squeeze, his pain beyond words as he lay where he was, fingers gripped in Javert’s mane, head on his chest, hoping, still hoping for anything.

He did not look up as he heard two familiar steps behind him. 

“...is he…?” Feuilly asked, his voice quiet, as if not wanting to disturb them.

The thought of agreeing made it seem too real for Valjean so he stay still, feeling his lips tremble. His breaths shuddered as he took them, tears rising unbidden.

“We were so close,” came Bahorel’s voice, thick with emotion. “The last petal hasn’t even fallen, this is—” Bahorel was hushed by Feuilly, but there was a scuffle. “All you had to do was to say you loved him!” Bahorel cried, “Then we’d have been human again, we’d have been...” this time, Bahorel cut himself off, his voice angry but too full of sorrow to continue.

_ Love _ . Valjean bit the inside of his lip. He had not thought about it. Had not thought that he could feel it, could deserve to have it felt about him. Javert had refused to tell him about the curse because he knew Valjean would not react well to it, was not ready to love. Valjean had been too slow.

_ I love him,  _ Valjean realised. “I love him.”

A raindrop fell, cold and heavy onto Valjean’s hand, the patter starting slow, but gaining momentum. Valjean frowned. He did not feel wet. He heard Feuilly and Bahorel gasp, looked up. They were not raindrops, but small meteors of bright light, pink, dashing across the sky and falling about them, landing with chime-like whistles. 

The light gathered around Javert, a golden glow shining from him as if being emitted from his very core. It picked him up and Valjean fell backwards, unable to comprehend the sight before him, Javert’s body now levitating above the ground, surrounded in light and then a flash: Javert’s limbs encompassed by a blinding light and his body dropped to the floor.

_ His  _ body, Valjean realised as his eyes readjusted to the natural light of emerging dawn, but not the beast’s. Valjean fell to a crouch beside Javert, who was picking himself up,  _ alive _ , staring down at his hands, at his fingers, and then, then Javert looked at Valjean. “...The clouds were covering the stars. It would have been a shame to die like that.” Javert released a sigh, like he was expelling something from deep within him. 

“Is that an apology?” Valjean asked, before throwing himself on Javert, keeping him in a hug. 

“Yes.” Valjean felt Javert’s fingers grab at the back of his shirt, his fingers cold against the warmth of Valjean’s skin. 

“Can you stand?” he asked, realising they should probably inquire after the siege below. He helped Javert up, but he seemed uncertain on his new human legs and tottered slightly, relying heavily on Valjean to keep himself upright.

Valjean smiled, tentative at first but growing into a grin. “You’re smaller than me, like this.” 

Javert’s face soured, he too realising he was now the slender one of the two. “Still taller, though,” Javert said as if that were a prize in and of itself. 

Valjean ran his fingers through Javert’s hair, tucking it behind Javert’s ear, pleased that it was still as soft as the beast’s fur had been. “I was right,” Valjean said, beaming. “You have grey in yours, too. ”

“Do you want me to change back?” Javert warned, as if he had the power to do so, mischief in his expression.

“No,” Valjean laughed. “No, you look better like this. Much better,” he said, and, when he heard a suspiciously Bahorel-like snigger, he leant in, partly to keep his next words away from prying ears. “I love you,” he said again, this time able to look into Javert’s eyes as he said it, able to see that Javert believed him. 

As they kissed, a final light whistled around them, surrounding them in a soft glow that shot up, unto the sky, and fell like snow over the castle. As the sun peaked from the horizon, the castle was bathed in golden light, the dark of before washed away like ash, revealing the castle’s lighter, brighter previous self, gargoyles becoming angels, harsh wrought-iron turning to gold.

And then, beside them, joyous laughs; the light flashing and the familiar candlestick/clock duo replaced by young men, Feuilly and Bahorel took a long moment to grin at one another before pulling one another into a tight hug, hands gripping clothes, and then they kissed, much more passionate than Valjean and Javert’s. Bahorel’s muscles explained his power to withstand Feuilly’s attacks, Valjean realised. He would have to tell Cosette that the form the servants had taken did not directly correlate with their human selves’ body type.

“How come they get fireworks when they kiss, but we don’t?” Bahorel asked as he finally pulled away, feigning affront.

Feuilly rolled his eyes with such fondness Valjean could not help but widen his own grin. “I guess we’ll have to keep trying.” Feuilly and Bahorel excused themselves unceremoniously, barely waiting until they were out of sight before continuing.

“All of my plans are ruined,” Valjean said once they had left, and he and Javert were left alone on the balcony overlooking the castle grounds.

“Plans?” Javert asked, his shoulder nudging against Valjean’s, apparently reacting to the emotion in Valjean’s voice.

“Come spring I was planning on surprising you by having planted flowers in the garden... I was going to start in a couple of days, but now that the castle has changed its colour scheme, my plans will not match.”

“Well… if you don’t mind my helping… the job will be bigger… We could plan it together.”

“That was exactly what I was hoping you’d say,” Valjean said, feeling very successful indeed. “We shall have to see whether any of the books in your library have any tips.”

“Our library,” Javert corrected, Valjean realising that now, without the fur, Javert had a high blush. It was endearing to the point of distraction, but he put it aside to be distracted by at a later time. “Our, if you want it to be. ...and Cosette’s too, if she… wants to… or… doesn’t mind that you… we…” 

“She’ll be thrilled!” Valjean froze. “ _ Cosette _ . Oh, Cosette. The men storming the castle, she thinks I came here to  _ fight  _ you.” 

Valjean was running again, his body complaining for the third time that day about overuse. By the time he reached the top of the flight of stairs that descended into the entrance, he was out of breath, and took a moment to survey the damage. There were… a lot of people below him, though… there did not seem to be fighting, just confusion. A lot of confusion.

“Monsieur Jean!” There was only one person who called Valjean by his first name, so recognising Jehan as they bounded up to him was easy (though, Valjean thought, it probably would not have been hard even without the clue.) “We were attacking the humans, and then, psheww!” Jehan waved their hands about themself, mimicking the same lights from upstairs. “Now nobody knows who’s who!” 

Valjean surveyed the crowd and, though some were distinguishable as maids or butlers from their clothing, most were dressed in assorted villager-esque clothing. Those who personally knew each other tended to stick together, except some of the parties recognised others like long-lost friends, which made everything a lot more confusing for everyone. 

Among the throng, Valjean spotted his daughter and felt a wave of relief to see that she had not been harmed. “Cosette!” as he called, the room turned towards him, obviously looking for any source of authority to tell them what was happening.

“Papa! You’re okay!” Valjean nodded, Cosette running up the stairs towards him to embrace him again. Her grip tightened as more footsteps rushed down the same staircase Valjean had appeared from, and Valjean only smiled at Cosette’s protectiveness.

“Javert,” Valjean introduced to Cosette, as well as the rest of those watching them. “Formerly what we called the  _ beast  _ because of a curse put on this castle’s inhabitants.” 

“But now we are all free,” Javert continued to the crowd. There was a cheer, loud and jubilant as the the castle’s servants finally, finally realised that they were going to be human again after a decade’s curse.

“This is Javert?” Cosette asked, wary, “ _ The  _ Javert?”

“That Javert,” Valjean said, completing their use of demonstrative determiners.

Javert bowed, deeply, more than apology in the action. Approval, Valjean thought, liking the implication more than he would care to admit.

“Oh.” Cosette squinted, squeezing Valjean’s waist as she appraised Javert. “Hm. Nice to meet you. Papa, you’re going to explain this to me later.”

Javert only straightened once Cosette’s gaze had moved on, searching for Valjean’s eye to make sure he had done right. Valjean’s silly grin was probably more than enough encouragement, but, just in case it wasn’t, he cupped Javert’s cheek and brought him into another kiss. 

“I love you,” Javert breathed against Valjean’s lips. “...but you need to shave before you do that again. It scratches. And don’t start,” Javert said, licking his lips, “I know for a fact that you thought my hair was soft.”

Valjean laughed, a deep sound from his stomach, not caring whose attention they caught. He had a family. He felt loved. It made  him think about his novel, the one he had on both bedside tables, in Cosette’s house and in the castle. Happily ever after. It might be nice.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ninjaninaiii.tumblr.com

“Every guy here'd love to be you, Enjolras.” Combeferre patted Enjolras on the back, but received a cold shoulder for his effort. “There's no man in town as admired as you, you're everyone's favorite guy, everyone's awed and inspired by you and it's not very hard to see why.”

“Combeferre, I was simply asking why none of the town is worried.” Enjolras looked around the tavern. Ten years ago, many members of Les Amis had disappeared, leaving only Combeferre, Eponine, Marius and a few associates, members Enjolras could rely on, but who had not been part of his core team.

“Well, it has been a decade,” Combeferre said, sadly. “Most of us have… given up.”

Enjolras sighed. He did not like to bring the event up because Combeferre had lost his partner, but to tiptoe about the issue was counter-productive. It reduced the possibility of finding the missing populace of the town.

As he tried to work out how to phrase his thoughts without offending the man, the door opened, letting in a bundled Marius, who came to rest in the chair beside Combeferre. Enjolras frowned. Here was another problem. “Marius, where have you been this last month?”

Marius was beaming, dreamily, which only served to harshen Enjolras’ brow. “There’s a girl…” Marius and Enjolras sighed simultaneously. “She’s building a war machine or something and she’s so clever…”

Enjolras was already disregarding Marius’ lovelorn comments, until his brain filtered through the words. “War… war machine?”

Marius nodded. “An axe, some sort of gun… a battering ram… her face as she tests the machine on the trees in the forest is divine, she’s like some sort of… wrathful angel.”

“Marius, where does this girl live? Show her to me.” If there was a disruption of order in the town, Enjolras needed to know about it. Marius was looking at him… like he was planning on stealing the man’s precious love-interest away from him. Enjolras rolled his eyes. “We might be able to help with her cause,” he said, and Marius brightened. Enjolras knew he was not good with the shifts of human emotion, not like Combeferre (or Courfeyrac had been,) but even he could recognise Marius’ gullibility.

-

Grantaire laughed as he poured more than double the amount of recommended liquor into his soufflé. That would teach those old men to misuse his absolutely legendary culinary prowess.

-

Marius led Enjolras and Combeferre towards the lone cottage away from town. _The inventor_ , Enjolras realised. Of course Marius would choose the enigmatic family to enamour himself with.

As they approached, Enjolras squinted. It was snowing heavily, but there was something else clouding the sky. Something darker. Black. Smoke. “Fire. The cottage is on fire, quick, Combeferre, inform the town, get help. Marius, quick!” Combeferre doubled back as commanded and Enjolras and Marius sped towards the house, shielding their eyes against the snow, then the acrid smoke pouring through the windows.

Marius was first to burst through the doors, Enjolras placing his handkerchief over his nose and instructing Marius to do the same. Marius indicated that he was going upstairs, so Enjolras took the basement, searching for the girl. The old man, Enjolras remembered. He hoped they were together.

He burst through the basement door, coughing as the smoke got thicker.

There was the girl— looking completely unphased. Or, rather, unphased by the smoking machine in front of her, more worried that he had burst through the doors. She was arming herself, now, a large wrench in one hand.

“No, no, wait!” Enjolras held his hands up, the girls swinging her weapon. “I thought your house was on fire, I came to save you!” The girl seemed wary, but lowered the weapon.

“Who are you?”

“Enjolras.” He removed the handkerchief from his face, hoping she might then recognise him from town. “Enjolras Gaston.”

-

As Jehan poured Jean’s tea, they continued their song. “He thinks you’re beautiful,” they told Jean, humming. Jean’s head shot up, looking at the master, then dropped back to look at Jehan.

“He told you that?”

“Did he need to say it out loud?” Jehan asked, before dropping a small amount of milk into Jean’s tea. “He thinks you’re beautiful, you can see it in his eyes.”

“Oh.” Jean sounded like he didn’t believe Jehan, so Jehan tutted.

“The master will get jealous, if he thinks we’re ignoring him,” Jehan said, simply, before laughing a gleeful laugh. After a slight hesitation, Jean joined in, both observing as the master frowned and looked, predictably, jealous. “See? Enjoy the rest of your meal.”

-

By the time Combeferre had arrived with buckets, Marius and Enjolras were sat at Cosette’s table with cups of tea. “It was so cold, I didn’t want to open the doors and let the chill in,” Cosette was saying. “So the smoke just built up… Oh, you must be Combeferre? Please, sit down, I’m sorry for the bother.”

Combeferre put the buckets down without so much as a sigh. He had anticipated this, hence his lack of a rush. He had brought the buckets in case, but the inventor’s house was known for its arrays of billowing smoke, and Combeferre kept track of which smoke meant what. Today’s had been ‘machine malfunction, medium,’ but he had not wanted to say, lest Marius made the wrong assumptions.

“What are you making?” Enjolras asked, Marius too busy staring into his lap and stewing. He was like a bright red apple, Combeferre thought.

“A weapon. My father has been kidnapped. I am going to take him back.”

“Kidnapped?” Enjolras frowned. “Why did you not report this to the authorities?”

“Because he was kidnapped by the beast in the castle.” Cosette’s frown was full of vengeance. “I was assuming the castle was owned by loyalty, and thus my appeals to authority would go unheard.”

Enjolras nodded, liking the girl’s thoughts. As if he could hear Enjolras’ approval, Marius looked at him, imploring. “Would you like our assistance?”

Cosette considered the three of them for a moment before nodding. “But only if I lead the attack.”

Enjolras nodded. “Of course. We are yours to use as you wish.”

-

Feuilly remembered the first time he had seen Bahorel Lumière; a blacksmith’s apprentice in town. He was beautiful, black and built of muscles. He was perfect.

If Feuilly had not asked Bahorel to join him in the castle as the master’s new blacksmith, Bahorel would have led a normal life, would never have fallen to the curse as Feuilly was destined to.

...but, he was selfish enough to think, he was glad Bahorel had come. He wasn’t sure whether he could have tolerated a decade in the stagnating house without him. Without Bahorel, many of the members of the household might have fallen victim to vicious self-loathing, himself included.

-

When Papa came home, talking about how the beast had let him free, Cosette had to think a lot about what to do with the literal murder weapon she was harbouring downstairs. She had only just completed it; the four of them had planned on testing it tomorrow morning before leading the attack at dusk.

But now here Papa was, talking about the beast as if it were human. _He_ was, Papa insisted, and Cosette got the strange feeling that Papa was hiding something. That he had developed _feelings_ for the beast. Cosette was entirely happy for her Papa to find love, and romance, but… with the beast? The creature who had locked him up? Was this not some kind of syndrome?

She went to bed early, planning on sneaking out once her Papa was asleep to hold an emergency meeting with the boys.

Only, not an hour after she left her Papa by the fire, she heard the smash of a mirror, then her Papa was running to the door.

“I have to go!” Her Papa said, already out of the door and mounting Philippe. “Javert!” he cried, before riding away into the darkness.

“Javert?” Cosette shouted after him. Cosette only had vague memories of the inspector, none of them positive. She had often woken as a child to hear her Papa shout the name in his sleep, along with another, ‘Fantine’.

Papa must have realised something now that he had escaped the castle, something about the inspector… the beast was Javert? Her Papa must have realised because of the distance, and had gone to fight him. Cosette was already pulling on her clothes (a shirt and trousers re-purposed from her Papa’s wardrobe,) ready to run to Enjolras’ house to rouse the three.

-

Jehan was the first to see the humans chasing after Jean, so they hopped down to where they knew Feuilly and Bahorel would be.

“Town's folk are coming!”

“What?” Feuilly frowned at them, removing himself from an argument-come-embrace with Bahorel.

“There were town's people chasing after Monsieur Jean! He must be in trouble, escaping them!”

“Oh!” Bahorel nodded. “That must be why he asked for the master.”

“He looked so desperate,” Feuilly added.

“Monsieur Jean must hope that the master will scare them away with his roar,” Jehan concluded.

“Well we can’t allow them all the glory, now can we?” Bahorel exclaimed, miming rolling up his sleeves. “Furniture, to action!”

-

As they rode, they formulated a plan. Cosette would leave her machine with Marius, at home. If time really was of the essence, they could not afford to lug the heavy weapon all the way out. So, Combeferre would bring fireworks. If Marius spotted them in the sky, he would start to ride, their second line of attack.

Meanwhile, Combeferre and Enjolras would lead the ground army, taking members of the tavern as well as willing townspeople, directing them in battle.

Cosette would charge through first, heading for the cells first since she alone knew where they were.

-

Courfeyrac hadn’t even meant to be in the castle the day it had been cursed. He had been having violin lessons to impress his partner. It had been just his luck.

-

Enjolras had been led into the kitchen, brandishing a knife. It was dark, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else here. He squinted in the dark. No… there was something here. Something… waiting. He slowed his breathing, his footsteps silent on the tiled floor.

There was a rush of flames, the bright white of heat temporarily blinding Enjolras as something tripped him up. The oven was on fire, flames were spewing from its gaping mouth, laughing, malevolent.

“You’re in my territory, now, kid!” the oven cried, the drawers pulling open as he said so to reveal glinting knives, the table’s leg grabbing Enjolras’ own leg towards the oven until it towered over Enjolras, the raw heat from it scorching Enjolras’ face. He shut his eyes, the fire drying his eyes, scathing his skin…

Only… then it was suddenly cold, the heat dissipating as if by magic. Enjolras was crushed under the weight of something, he scrabbled to get it off, thinking perhaps the table had fallen… only the thing was a person. There were a lot of people, now, servants, scullery maids, all on their knees as if they’d been thrown to the floor, all inspecting their fingers.  

“...We’re human again,” the person on top of Enjolras whispered, his own hands covered in coal, his apron covered in grease.

The cook, Enjolras thought. Dark eyes, dark skin, dark hair in curls, beautiful… but hot. Physically emitting heat like a furnace. “Could you get off me?” he asked, before adding a “please?”

“I’m human!” the human furnace was exclaiming, looking at his fingers like he had no idea how they’d got there. “Look at me!”

“I— I am?”

“I think I’m going to cry.” His attention dropped to Enjolras, who he seemed to only realise he was straddling. “I’m going to kiss you.”

“Oh,” Enjolras managed to say before the man dipped to catch his lips, pinning Enjolras further to the floor. He tasted like ash, sugar and faintly like liquor. It was an odd mix but, Enjolras realised, intoxicating.

“Hi,” the man said, just a breath above Enjolras. “I’m Grantaire, the oven that was trying to kill you.”

“Hi,” Enjolras echoed, dazed.

-

“But now we are all free,” Javert continued to the crowd. There was a cheer, loud and jubilant as the the castle’s servants finally, finally realised that they were going to be human again after a decade’s curse.

A few minutes of celebration passed, where long-lost lovers were reunited, new-found lovers experienced dreamy bliss, and non-lovers loved with divine platonic strength.

The assembled crowds were thrown to the floor as the doors were shattered by an explosion. There were screams, men, women and everyone else scrambling to check for the wounded.

In the entrance was a weapon, massive, cannon-like. Behind it, Marius.

“I— I saw fireworks,” he said, once he’d calmed down enough to talk. “You said to watch for fireworks, and I heard shouting, and I— I thought—”

**Author's Note:**

> ninjaninaiii.tumblr.com
> 
> (it was so hard not writing "bro" every time Bahorel spoke but... mon ami is practically bro.... right...? so mon cher is defo full-homo-bro)


End file.
